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Time is one of those deep subjects. No one can see it, but we can see its effects. It is one of the earliest words we hear: dinnertime, bedtime, Once Upon a Time. We use it to describe seasons and events: springtime, Christmas time, Miller time. We know that time marches on, that time heals all wounds, and that time and tides wait for no man. We make the most of our time and we kill time. We all have good times and bad times.

Time is elastic. If we are totally absorbed in something, we lose all track of time. If we have a very intense moment, time seems to slow down as we take in every detail around us and imprint it our memories. Einstein, in a Relativity for Dummies moment, noted that a minute spent sitting on a hot stove is much longer than a minute spent sitting on a park bench next to a pretty girl.

We measure time, and we use it to order our lives. At work, we may punch a time clock, and we always try to be on time. In sports, we have time out and halftime. We waltz in three-quarter time. We time ourselves in contests. We break time down to nanoseconds and stretch it out to millenia, but what we are really doing is noting how much happens to us during that span.

My two oldest and my youngest grandchildren were here for Thanksgiving. The two oldest decided to re-create their childhood game of "making tangles" by wrapping balls of yarn around everything in my house. Somehow they decided that throwing the yarn over the ceiling fan was even more fun. The youngest was so delighted by this game that she announced "This is the best Thanksgiving ever!"

And that is time's gift. Things from the past seem to reach forward into the present. We see our grandmother's smile on the face of a grandchild; we are transported for a moment back to our own childhood by a song or a movie or a scent. It did my heart good to see the two young adults playing like children, and to see the child so captivated by their playfulness. It was, indeed, a very good time.